Cut to Midnight
by roktavor
Summary: Maybe it's selfish, yeah, to want a date night on a work trip. But it's not just that he wants to spend time with Buccellati – he thinks Buccellati deserves a break. If he won't give it to himself, then Abbacchio will drag him into it.


**A/N:** For BruAbba week day 5 prompt: romance (with a tiny bit of luxury thrown in?).

* * *

 **Cut to Midnight**

"Leone," Buccellati says, stopping no more than two steps into the room, "this isn't the suite I booked us."

"I know." Slipping past him, Abbacchio carries their suitcase (because they only ever need one, thanks to Sticky Fingers) to the bedroom. "I changed the reservation," he calls over his shoulder as he goes.

From the sound of it, Buccellati is either wandering around or following him. " _Why_?"

Suitcase safely deposited in the light and airy bedroom, Abbacchio leans against the doorframe, watching as Buccellati gravitates toward the floor-to-ceiling, wall-to-wall window that opens onto their own private terrace.

"Because," Abbacchio says, "you told me that Polpo wants you to "flaunt money" on this trip. A junior suite isn't flaunting money."

A little wrinkle appears between Buccellati's brows. "…We don't need this much space."

"Getting things you don't need is pretty much the definition of flaunting wealth, Buccellati." It can't be helped, though, Abbacchio thinks, that Buccellati's sensible upbringing would make him hold back on the superfluous. "Don't worry, I'll teach you the joys of loose spending."

Buccellati actually winces at that, turning away from the window for a second. "Please don't. _Someone_ has to manage our budget."

"Fugo manages the budget."

" _Abbacchio_."

That's actual exasperation in Buccellati's tone, and Abbacchio feels a prick of guilt.

He knows this trip is already plenty stressful for Buccellati: having to be the face of Polpo's faction at this all-important meeting, leaving Fugo in charge of _Mista_ and _Narancia_ and _business_ back in Naples…there's a lot that could go wrong, and plenty to lose if it does.

Conversely, if things go _well_ , Buccellati's future is bright. Which, of course, means all of their futures are bright by association. They won't have to watch their budget much longer in that case.

"Sorry," Abbacchio apologizes. The only reason he can stay so relaxed is the amount of faith he has in Buccellati. (Privately, Abbacchio hopes that he can help Buccellati relax in turn – though he's doing a pretty shitty job so far. And he has a sneaking suspicion that Buccellati won't relax until the job is done, anyway.)

"It's alright," Buccellati sighs, looking back to the window. He seems to like the view, at least, and Abbacchio's glad he thought to pick a suite with a view of the harbor. "I'm just…."

"I know."

Buccellati breathes deep, squaring his shoulders. As Abbacchio watches, all signs of stress vanish, replaced by that steadfast personality and its stoic surface. "We better get ready, then," he says, turning to Abbacchio with a raised eyebrow. "Hopefully our clothes are expensive enough for you?"

Abbacchio smirks at that. "Custom-made will do, yeah."

"Oh, thank goodness." Buccellati's voice is monotone as he brushes past Abbacchio and into their bedroom.

Turning so that he can follow Buccellati in, and watch his reaction, Abbacchio informs him: "I did buy you a new watch to go with yours, though."

Buccellati stops, turns halfway back, and brandishes his wrist. "My watch is perfectly fine!"

"' _Flaunting money'_ ," Abbacchio reminds.

"I'm not going to be checking the time at the meeting, Leone. That would be _rude_." Continuing to their suitcase, Buccellati opens it and starts on getting their clothes out of Sticky Fingers' storage. "You shouldn't have spent money on that…."

Abbacchio finds himself stuck, unable to form a comeback that doesn't completely give him away. So he stays quiet as they both get dressed, letting the topic fade in favor of discussions of work and the job they have ahead.

See, Abbacchio has another reason – aside from being able to support Buccellati – that he's glad he was the one invited to tag along for this mission.

The timing, he's sure, is a complete accidental coincidence. Buccellati _is_ bad at remembering special dates, after all. Last year he had even forgotten his own birthday, and Fugo had told Abbacchio that he does so _every single year_.

The problem, Abbacchio thinks, is that Buccellati has so many responsibilities to handle that he plain old forgets about the date if he doesn't have to write it on paperwork. In some cases, late night paperwork is the only reason he remembers at all. In other cases, Buccellati sees the numbers and doesn't recognize that they're important.

In other, _other_ cases, Buccellati may not know that a date is important in the first place. It's likely that tomorrow is one of these dates.

After all, just because Abbacchio has the exact date and time they became a couple stamped into his brain for eternity doesn't mean that Buccellati even remembers what _season_ they got together in.

And that's fine, in all honesty – Abbacchio doesn't need their anniversary to be a big to-do. All things considered (their location, the atmosphere, Buccellati's surefire success, the weather, the fact that they're _alone_ ), though, Abbacchio thinks it'd be a shame if they didn't do _anything_ to celebrate.

First, of course, they have the meeting to deal with. Abbacchio can and will stay focused for that.

Afterwards, however…he has his plans.

x

By the time they make it back to the hotel, it's late enough that most of the other guests are either asleep or on the way there. The hotel is eerily quiet as they make their way to their floor – which they have to themselves, courtesy of their oversized suite.

Once they're inside, with the door locked behind them, Abbacchio can feel the tension draining from his body. Everything had gone well, as he had expected it would, and it's a major relief not to have to think of it anymore.

Buccellati, Abbacchio can tell from here, is a different story. His stiff posture never _really_ leaves him, but it's worse now than usual – Buccellati still has _plenty_ to think over.

Hopefully, tonight, he won't mind a distraction.

Time to test the waters and hope for the best.

They're barely into the living room when Abbacchio slips in close behind, wrapping his arms around Buccellati and pulling him flush against himself.

There's a soft noise from Buccellati at the contact, which Abbacchio takes as encouragement. He presses a warm kiss to the side of Buccellati's neck, right above the collar of his expensive custom suit (open-chested, of course).

"Leone," Buccellati says with a sigh, even as he leans into Abbacchio's hold, "I should be going to bed, soon. We head home tomorrow…."

"We have late check-out," Abbacchio mumbles into Buccellati's skin, dropping another kiss right above his first. There are dark lipstick marks on Buccellati's neck. They look _good_ there. "Don't you at least want dinner first?"

"If anything, I should look over tomorrow's travel itinerary for us…"

"Aren't you hungry?" Of course he is, they haven't eaten since lunch. Whether or not he'll admit it and set aside work-related excuses to actually _eat_ is the question.

"I'm expecting a call from Polpo," Buccellati says, breaking out the real, final argument, "he'll want an update."

Between the gang bullshit and the traveling, though, Abbacchio _knows_ that Buccellati won't sit down to rest. Even if he goes to bed now, as is he'll probably sit up for hours.

Ordinarily there's a boundary Abbacchio doesn't want to overstep between them when it comes to work, but tonight, he thinks, he might just toe that line. Portofino isn't Naples. There's no paperwork here.

Aside from the upcoming Polpo call, they're free from work for the evening.

Fugo is holding down the fort back home just fine.

Abbacchio and Buccellati are alone. On their anniversary.

Maybe it's selfish, yeah, to want a date night on a work trip. But it's not just that he wants to spend time with Buccellati – he thinks Buccellati deserves a break. If he won't give it to himself, then Abbacchio will drag him into it.

Starting with dinner.

One last kiss at the corner of Buccellati's jaw, and Abbacchio unwinds his arms. He steps around Buccellati, grabbing one of his hands to coax him over toward the floor-to-ceiling window. It takes some finagling to get it open one-handed, but he manages.

"Leone," Buccellati starts, understandably dubious, "why are you taking me outside?"

"For dinner," Abbacchio explains. A couple more tugs on Buccellati's hand has him following onto the terrace. He'll understand soon enough.

"I told you, we – oh…."

Buccellati's insistence that they don't have time for dinner dies as he looks over the balcony. There's a candlelit dinner waiting for them, already set up – squid pasta, because Buccellati loves that stuff for some reason. There's wine, chocolate cake for desert. A fancy tablecloth.

Coupled with the nighttime view of the harbor, it's pretty damn breathtaking, if Abbacchio says so himself.

"You didn't." Buccellati steps closer for a better look, eyes lighting up when he catches sight of what they're eating. "When did…?"

"While you were on the phone, checking in with Fugo," Abbacchio explains, "I made a call, too." (Speaking of, he'll have to remember to tip the staff extra. They've gone above and beyond here.)

Buccellati rubs a thumb over the back of Abbacchio's hand, a tiny smile in place as he looks over the balcony. "You didn't have to…."

"I wanted to."

x

"Thank you," Buccellati says, after they've eaten, when the candles are burning low, "for this."

"…It's nothing," Abbacchio says, because he's too much of a chicken to own up to the reason he did it. If Buccellati doesn't ask, he's not sure he can work up the courage to tell him.

"And for my new watch." Oh shit. Buccellati's starting to look crafty – which means he's suspicious, because of course he's smart enough to connect the vaguest of dots.

"You needed a nice one for fancy shit anyway." No matter how Abbacchio tries to excuse it, though, the watch is a _gift_.

Something about his demeanor must give him away, because Buccellati leans his elbows on the table, resting his chin in one palm with a considering expression. "You've been in an awfully good mood today."

"Yeah, well…." Abbacchio figures he might as well bite the bullet. He's not exactly _trying_ to keep it a secret, after all, it's just that it's embarrassing to give context to. "…It's a special occasion."

"Because the others aren't here?"

"No, because it's our first anniversary."

Buccellati sits up at that, his upright forearm tipping to lay on the other one. He's looking over Abbacchio's face, but Abbacchio's too busy dodging eye contact to notice much more than that. "Oh," Buccellati breathes, "I'm sorry, I didn't –"

"No – no, it's okay." Abbacchio rushes to reassure him, because really, he doesn't at all _mind_. He just wanted to do something special. "I knew you wouldn't remember the date, so I…did."

"Why didn't you tell me it was coming up?"

"I wanted to surprise you," Abbacchio admits, only realizing how true that is as he says it. Oh, this is even more embarrassing than he thought. "And besides. You happened to pick a pretty romantic hotel."

There's a shy, almost smile on Buccellati's face at that. "Well, I did want somewhere nice…since it was just going to be the two of us."

That shouldn't be enough to get Abbacchio blushing, but somehow it _is_. It doesn't help that he's always been weak for Buccellati's smiles. And the fact that, amidst all the business, Buccellati still thinks of him – of them. Ugh. He can't even form words right now, with Buccellati looking at him like that.

"We got lucky that the meeting was in Portofino," Buccellati continues, his gaze slipping away, drawn to the harbor again. "It's so peaceful here."

"Yeah, it is," Abbacchio agrees, not taking his eyes off of Buccellati. He knows that Buccellati finds it more than just peaceful – he looks so _at home_ near the sea. Something about it calms him.

After a moment, Buccellati's eyes are on Abbacchio again, officially catching him staring. Which would be embarrassing, if Buccellati didn't seem so damn happy right now, with his relaxed gaze sweeping over Abbacchio in turn. He gets up slowly, and takes the few steps to Abbacchio's side of the table, standing close.

There are fingers trailing through the ends of Abbacchio's hair, and he's so busy drowning in Buccellati's too-blue eyes that he doesn't realize Buccellati is bending closer until they're kissing. His eyes slip closed on reflex, then.

Buccellati's mouth is warm and soft and he tastes like chocolate. When he pulls away, he's barely gone a millisecond before he's back, overlapping their lips to bite at Abbacchio's.

Abbacchio barely registers the hand on his cheek, tipping his head to better slot their mouths together. His lipstick (still holding out, after all-day wear _and_ dinner, this is why he pays for _quality_ ) makes it a sticky-slick slide when Buccellati deepens the kiss.

The shrill ringing of a phone shatters the peace, and Buccellati cuts off their kiss with a soft sigh. "That's Polpo," he murmurs, still close enough that their mouths brush.

Opening his eyes to stare into Buccellati's, Abbacchio steals one last short kiss. The hand on his face rubs down over his neck, all the way to his chest, pushing him back with gentle pressure.

And then Buccellati is gone, answering the phone in a professional voice as he heads back inside for privacy.

Polpo is a bastard with shit timing, Abbacchio decides.

After dinner, Abbacchio had been hoping that he could coax Buccellati to bed for some much needed real actual _rest_. Cuddle the fuck out of him, and all. Spoon him until he falls asleep, so that he can't sneak away to work….

Well, it's not like his plan is _completely_ lost, he supposes. He's still very much willing to enact it once Buccellati is done on the phone, it's just that Polpo's official business calls have a tendency to get long winded. _And_ Buccellati won't be able to summarize an entire day's worth of meeting in anything less than an hour, even if he tries.

Not to mention that, after the phone call, he'll have to get Buccellati back out of the work mindset. He wishes he had thought to bring some kind of music. Hell, he wishes he had the courage to slow dance with Buccellati _at all_.

…Whatever plan he decides on, Abbacchio now has time to kill before he can execute it.

He thinks that sitting and watching Buccellati pace around as he talks on the phone, lips stained a telltale black, will only make him restless, though. Now would be a good time for a shower, or maybe a bath in that big, ridiculous tub….

First thing's first, he should stop sitting out here alone with the burnt out candles. There's no need to clear away dishes – the staff will get them tomorrow – but Abbacchio does close up the window on his way in.

Sure enough, Buccellati is pacing around the living room area, his face showing nothing but business as usual. Still, Abbacchio can feel those eyes on his back as he enters their bedroom.

The bathroom is just through here, and once he's in, Abbacchio runs the hottest bath he can stand. Then makes it a little hotter, for good measure.

As the tub fills, he tugs his custom-made formal wear off, leaving it in a disgraceful pile on the floor, since it'll need dry cleaned anyway. His face is next, and he rubs at it halfheartedly with a makeup removing wipe before dropping it in favor of climbing into the finally-full tub.

If he isn't careful, the hot water is gonna have him drifting off here and now, and all of his Buccellati-related plans will be down the drain. The sheer size of this tub actually allows Abbacchio to stretch his long legs out the whole way. He might never leave.

Washing himself – aka doing the actual bathing thing – can take a backseat to just lying here to soak, for all he cares. He's comfortable and relaxed, and he can afford to lose track of time, because he's sure Buccellati's still on the phone.

…Come to think of it, the only thing that would make this better would be if Buccellati were here to get in with him.

But that's unlikely to happen, given that Buccellati has been on the phone for a half hour at most, and –

– The door is unzipping, right down the middle. Abbacchio sits up a little to get a better look, but there's no way it could be anyone except Buccellati. Sure enough, he steps inside, zipping the hole up behind himself.

Abbacchio blinks, caught in pleasant shock. "That was fast."

"I'd rather be here." Buccellati strips quicker than Abbacchio had, zipping all of his clothes off at once. His socks are next, and then the watch – which he takes extra care with, setting it on the counter out of the way, so it won't get wet. "With you."

It's a good thing that Abbacchio's already kinda flushed from all the warmth and steam, because those words sure do get to him.

Buccellati _never_ cuts work short.

He's over by the tub, now, and Abbacchio spreads his legs to make room in front of himself, figuring on holding Buccellati some more. But Buccellati shakes his head, instead pressing at Abbacchio's shoulders.

Taking the hint, Abbacchio scoots forward – because it's not like he's gonna _refuse_ – and Buccellati slips in behind him, a leg on either side of Abbacchio's as he sits. Like this, Abbacchio can't quite stretch out anymore. Oddly enough, though, he can't bring himself to care overmuch about that; Buccellati's arms are winding around him, pulling him to lie against his chest. Somehow they settle with minimal splashing.

Buccellati heaves another sigh, and some of that tension _finally_ leaves him. "This is better," he says, mumbling it into Abbacchio's hair.

"Definitely."

Conversation goes nonexistent after that, but silence with Buccellati wrapped around him is _a lot_ more peaceful than silence while alone, especially when he drops a kiss onto Abbacchio's head. He was right, of course. Buccellati being here _does_ make it better.

Sinking into the water a bit more, Abbacchio shifts so that he's almost lying on his side, curled up as best he can. Like this, his head is more properly pillowed on Buccellati's chest, and he traces the tattoo there with careful fingers.

One of Buccellati's hands strokes over Abbacchio's hair, while the other keeps hold around him. His legs bump against Abbacchio's as he repositions himself a bit, but then he stills.

For a while, they just lay there like that. Buccellati seems lost in thought, absentmindedly continuing to pet Abbacchio's hair, occasionally scratching at his scalp, or rubbing down the back of his neck.

Abbacchio, meanwhile, is falling asleep. He can't help it. Buccellati's attentions, plus the warmth of the bath, not to mention the rare peaceful atmosphere…put together, it's enough to lull him into a state that's probably the most relaxed he's ever been.

"I have a small cottage by the sea," Buccellati's voice breaks the silence, much softer than usual. "Someday, I'd like to take you there."

Blinking open droopy eyes, Abbacchio forces himself to listen to more than the beat of Buccellati's heart. "Sounds cozy," he mumbles. He realizes his hand has stalled, splayed out over Buccellati's chest, and goes back to running his fingers over the intricate tattoo.

"I would show you around my hometown," Buccellati continues, twirling a piece of Abbacchio's hair between his fingers. "Maybe take you out on the ocean for a bit. Show you how a fishing boat works." His mouth brushes Abbacchio's forehead as he speaks. "Most of the time, though, we would stay inside. Bundled up together."

Ah, fuck. Abbacchio would give anything to have that – to have _this_ , all the time. "Sounds _very_ cozy."

"Mm." Buccellati kisses his head no less than three times, the last one lingering. "Neither of us would have to leave for anything. We'd have a week free of work, free of obligations…"

It's nothing but wishful thinking, and both of them know it. A useless pipe dream, but it still makes Abbacchio feel warmed to his toes. Life spent with Buccellati, away from toils and bad memories and violence and the blood on their hands.

If Buccellati is indulging in needless, impossible fantasies, then Abbacchio is sure as hell going to join him. "Why not just move in together," he suggests. "Live there. Go full domestic."

Buccellati tightens both arms around Abbacchio, somehow managing to pull him ever closer. "Adopt a cat."

Twisting a little, Abbacchio presses a kiss to the heart in the middle of Buccellati's chest. It feels so _good_ , being here with him (talking about the hypothetical life they'll never get to live). "Or a dog."

"Both," Buccellati decides, shrugging it off.

Abbacchio nods. "Both." He rubs a hand over Buccellati's chest, sliding it down and around so he's got him in a half hug.

"The others could visit."

"Would they _have_ to?"

Buccellati bumps him with a knee for that one, but if Abbacchio looks up, he can spot a tiny smile on that serious mouth. " _Yes_ ," he says, "you'd miss them otherwise."

"Not _often_ ," Abbacchio grumbles, and it's completely fake. He has a feeling that Buccellati can tell. "This is supposed to be a peaceful daydream, Bruno."

There's a sad, wistful sort of sigh from Buccellati.

Abbacchio knows _exactly_ how he feels.

"A quiet life," Buccellati says. There's an underlying bitter note in his voice that wasn't there a moment ago.

"Nice to think about." Because it is, even if that's all they can do.

"Yes." Sinking into the water just enough, Buccellati kisses the spot right between Abbacchio's brows, right where the furrow usually is. "It is."

The unspoken fact that a peaceful life is far beyond their reach by now hangs in the steamy air, thickening it in an unpleasant way.

Careful not to push against Buccellati too much, Abbacchio sits up a ways. He scoots impossibly closer, climbing into Buccellati's lap as best he can. It's much easier to reach his mouth like this, and Abbacchio cups his face between his palms before leaning in for a languid kiss.

"As long as you're here," he mumbles when they part, "that's all I need."

This time, with shimmering eyes, Buccellati kisses him.

* * *

 **A/N:** An attempt was made. This was the last one I wrote for this week (out of all seven days) and I wound up rewriting it three times so please take it off my hands.

...Ship weeks are a dangerous game bc they make me realize how much of a one trick pony I can be when it comes to writing, but if Hallmark Christmas Movies can do it then so can I.

The title is taken from Charli XCX's song You're The One.

Oh, also, this fic exposes me as team tattoo but please know I fully support Buccellati wearing lingerie as well. Why can't we have both...

Thanks for reading.


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